Both Ends of the Night Page 5

  Suddenly I felt a rush of gratitude toward the man I still called Brother Ricky, who—even though he seemed temporarily to have forgotten what hands-on fathering was like—felt deeply for lonely and displaced children. There was nothing he could do to erase the bad, sad things that had happened to Habiba in her young life, any more than he could erase the hurt he and my sister had inflicted on their own kids. But he tried in small ways: he knew that olives were Habiba’s favorite all-time treat, and he’d purposely left the open jar between them.

  And Habiba apparently recognized loneliness and discomfort in others: she’d seen it in Zach and taken her small, tentative step to ease it. Encouraged by his acceptance of her gift, she climbed off the stool, olive jar in hand, and asked him, “Do you want to see something really cool?”

  “Uh, sure.”

  “Is it okay if I show him, Ricky?”

  “Why not?” He watched them cross the kitchen, then called, “But be sure to keep your clothes on!”

  Habiba turned, putting one hand on a slim hip and wrinkling her nose in disgust. “Sometimes you can be so gross!”

  When they were gone, I asked, “What was that all about?”

  “She’s taking him to see the hot tub.” There was a Jacuzzi in the solarium off the master bedroom, from which you could see the Golden Gate, Marin headlands, and the Pacific. “Habiba’s figured out that Red and I get in the tub together without, as she puts it, our swimsuits. She finds the practice dreadful—and fascinating.”

  Rae came back, checked something in the oven that smelled like lasagna, and took Habiba’s stool. “I parked them in front of the rec room tube with one of those tapes you rented,” she told Ricky. “And for all our sakes, I promised them they could eat down there.”

  “Thank you for being so nice to my horrible children, Red.”

  “They’re not horrible. They just don’t know how to act around us yet.”

  “Well, they’d better learn fast, or we’ll both be certifiable.” He held his glass to her lips, but she bumped it with her hand and dribbled martini on her blue sweater. With the unconcern of one who suffers many spills, she flicked the droplets off, steadied the glass, and sipped. It put me in mind of the night they met, when she’d been so starstruck that she’d dropped a cup of Coke on her foot.

  I glanced at Hy, saw him smiling at me, and knew what he was thinking. Last summer, when I’d been vehemently and outspokenly against their unlikely pairing, he’d insisted they’d be good for each other. A touch of the old I-told-you-so in that smile, Ripinsky.

  “Okay,” he said to me, “tell us what you’re doing with Matty Wildress’s boyfriend’s kid.”

  “Well, you remember I said there was something odd about her reminding me of my biennial four months early. What she really wanted was to hire me, but, being Matty, she couldn’t come right out and ask.” I started to fill them in, but in the depths of the purse I’d set on the counter, my cell phone rang. The phone had been a fortieth birthday present from the office gang—a way of keeping me on a short leash, I suspected. For a moment I was tempted not to answer it, but then I fished it out and flipped it open.

  “McCone?” Matty again.

  “Yes. What’s happening?”

  “Plenty, but I can’t talk about it now. I’m at the airfield where the show’s gonna be held, about to catch a ride to the motel. There’re all sorts of people from the aerobatics club around and… Do you think you could come up here?”

  “Tonight?”

  “If you wouldn’t mind. I need to show you something I found in my plane. I could reserve you a room at the motel, cut short my dinner with my sponsors, and meet you there.”

  There was an edge to her voice that I’d never heard before—a note of panic, too. “Hold on.” I covered the mouthpiece and turned to Hy. “How’d you like to fly to Sacramento so I can meet with Matty tonight?”

  “Can’t.” He motioned with the hand that held the beer can.

  “I’ll pilot; I haven’t been drinking.”

  “Well, sure. I’ll be glad to keep you company.”

  I told Matty we’d both be there as soon as possible. Then I apologized to Rae and Ricky for cutting short our evening together and went to tell Zach I was leaving. When I came to the door of the solarium, I found him and Habiba sitting cross-legged on the wide ledge around the tub, the empty olive jar between them. They’d turned on the small overhead spotlights; the window glass reflected them as they inclined their heads toward each other, talking intensely.

  Habiba was speaking swiftly and softly: “… really horrible. First my mom, then my grams and my nanny, and then my dad. All gone. Every time I thought it couldn’t get worse, it did.”

  Zach said something that I couldn’t make out.

  “Yeah, it was. But people helped me. Sharon and Hy. Anne-Marie and Hank. And now I’ve got Ricky and Rae, if I need them.”

  Again he spoke in a low voice.

  “Yes, you do. You’ve got this Matty person. And Sharon’s on your side; I can tell. That means you’ve got all the others. And…” She looked away shyly. “And you can always talk to me, if you want to.”

  I turned and left Zach in the capable hands of a little girl who was wise beyond her years.

  Four

  A plastic windup toy.

  The comparison popped into my mind as Matty opened the door of her motel room for Hy and me. I tried to dismiss it—after all, this was Matty Wildress, one of the most self-possessed and dynamic women I knew—but the image wouldn’t go away. Her fixed gaze, her masklike face, her constrained motions—they all suggested an automaton containing a spring-coiled mechanism that, if released, would send her jerking and teetering toward disaster.

  To me she nodded curtly. She allowed Hy to hug her, but stood rigid in his embrace.

  I sat down on a chair beside a small round table and rummaged in my bag for my voice-activated tape recorder. Hy rarely hugged anyone but me, and I needed a moment to still my old questions about the two of them.

  The motel was one of the sort that typically cluster around freeway interchanges, this particular exit being off Interstate 5 some miles northwest of the state capital. While its lobby exhibited some pretense to a Western theme—cacti and wagon wheels and peeled-bark furnishings—the decor of Matty’s room was bland, and every object appeared to be either screwed down or attached to the walls. A place to spend the night when practically anything clean would do.

  Hy saved me from contemplating a framed series of meaningless paint smears by joining me at the table. Matty sat on the edge of the bed. Her expression was so passive that for a moment I forgot the question I wanted to ask. “Okay,” I finally said, forcing a reassuring note into my voice, “we’re here to help. What do you have to show us?”

  She reached into a duffel bag at her feet and pulled out a flat white woolly object; it had a black snout and legs, and a red satin heart appliquéd to its side. I stared, trying to fathom what it might be.

  She attempted a smile. “Weird, huh? It’s a hot-water bottle disguised as a lamb. You’re supposed to fill it through a stopper in its silly little mouth. A present from my first aerobatics coach, Jim Powell. A joke, because he started teaching me in the dead of winter, and I was always cold.”

  “And this is what you found in the plane?”

  “Yeah. A week or so ago it disappeared. I was upset, because I always kept it there—for luck, you know? Jim wrote me a list before he gave it to me, rolled it up and stuffed it inside. The kind of list I write for my students when they get their licenses, only having to do with aerobatics.”

  I remembered my own list well and still had it among my treasured possessions. In addition to practical tips and words of encouragement, Matty had included humorous items gleaned from early aviation handbooks: “Never leave the ground with the motor leaking”; “Aviators will not wear spurs while flying”; “It is advisable to carry a good pair of cutting pliers in a position where both pilot and passenger can reach them
in case of an accident.” And at its bottom she’d added, “You’re a good pilot, McCone. Fly safe, happy, and often.”

  I asked, “So the lamb reappeared tonight?”

  “I noticed it was stuffed behind the seat when I took my bag out after I tied. It wasn’t there this morning. Naturally I checked to see if Jim’s list was still inside. It was, but with this wrapped around it.” She poked her index finger under the lamb’s snout and pulled out a roll of paper, peeled the top sheet off, and handed it to me.

  I smoothed the sheet out on the table. Hy leaned closer, and we both examined it. A letter, written in a spiky, crabbed hand.

  Dear Matty,

  I hope you never read this letter, but if you do, I’ll have been gone over a week and won’t be coming back to you and Zach for quite some time—if ever. And never to Los Alegres.

  The following is vitally important and must be followed to the letter. It will save both your life and Zach’s.

  I’ve arranged for a wire transfer of $70,000 to your checking account. Your branch manager, Jeff Collins, is a friend of mine, and he knows you’re to have it in cash. I spun him a yarn about a lucrative investment opportunity, so just smile your pretty smile and act mysterious when he tries to worm the details out of you.

  As soon as you have the money, take Zach and disappear. Don’t say good-bye to anybody, not even the Paynes, and above all, don’t tell anybody where you’re going.

  My leaving has nothing to do with us, Matty. You’re a beautiful, strong woman—the best in every way. And that’s why I know I can entrust Zach to you. Do whatever you have to, use assumed names, go someplace where you don’t know anybody, keep a low profile. And raise my boy as I would—with love.

  I can’t explain what’s happening—not now, and probably not ever. Please trust me. But if somehow, in some way, I survive this, I’ll find you, no matter where you are. I promise I will.

  Love,

  John

  I read the letter twice, then asked Matty, “Are you sure this is John’s handwriting?”

  She nodded, biting her lip.

  “Why would he go to the trouble of hiding it inside the lamb?”

  “Surest way of getting it into my hands when he wanted it to. He knows I have the show this weekend, and he also knows that I always read Jim’s list beforehand.”

  “Okay, John could’ve put the letter in the lamb before he left, but how did it get back into your plane today?”

  “He asked somebody at the airport to do it, I guess. I keep my plane in Hangar B; there’re dozens of people in and out all the time. John could’ve convinced any one of them that the lamb was a surprise or a joke.”

  “Okay, about the money—where would he have gotten that much?”

  “Don’t know. He—”

  “I’d say we’ve got a bigger problem on our hands than figuring out where John got hold of the seventy thou.” Hy’s voice was rough with anger. “He says it’s vital that you and Zach follow his instructions—to save your lives. Matty, what the hell kind of guy did you hook up with?”

  “A good man. I’m sure there’s a reasonable explanation for all this.”

  “Right. He’s such a good man that he involved you in something without warning you about it. A good man who took off without a word, leaving you and his son in danger.”

  “Okay, you’ve made your point.”

  But Hy wasn’t content to stop there. “I’ll tell you one thing,” he said, “you’re not flying tomorrow.”

  Her spine stiffened. “Oh, yes, I am. You are not giving me orders, Ripinsky.”

  “In this instance I’m giving them. You’re going to—”

  “Go on exactly as I have before. I will fly, and I will fly well. And I will not take John’s money and disappear. I am not giving up my whole life just because he got himself into some jam and is running scared.”

  I said, “His letter made it sound more serious than running scared. Add that to what Wes Payne told us, and it appears that he went looking for a confrontation and may not have survived it.”

  “He can’t be dead!”

  “You’ve got to entertain that possibility. And if he is, you don’t want yourself and his son to be the next victims.”

  “Great! Just great!” What was left of her composure crumpled, and once again I had a mental image of a windup toy moving in quick, jittery steps toward the edge of a table.

  “Matty, it’s only one show. This time only, won’t you—”

  “No! I told you earlier, I can’t cave in to pressure. First I wouldn’t fly. Then I’d have myself so spooked that I couldn’t fly.”

  “I don’t think it’s that drastic—”

  “Oh, it’s drastic. It’s drastic, all right! Who the hell does John think he is, doing a thing like this to me? How can he ask me to vanish? Jesus, if I do as he told me, I’ll never be able to fly again! The first place anybody would look for me is at an airport. Besides, I couldn’t change the name on my license without leaving a paper trail. What would I do? How could I live?”

  “Seventy thousand will last a long time if you’re careful, but that’s beside the point. I’ve already got an operative working—”

  “Money! You think I’m talking money, McCone? I’m talking about who I am. And who I am is a pilot. Dammit, whatever possessed John to saddle me with this, to saddle me with his kid?”

  She paused, out of breath and seeming to hear the echoes of what she’d said. “Oh, Jesus, I didn’t mean that about Zach. I love the kid like he was my own. I’ve got to protect him. But how can I, when I don’t know who or what to watch out for? Even if we did run, there’d be no guarantee we’d be safe.”

  Hy and I exchanged glances. His anger had diffused, and his frown indicated he was deeply disturbed.

  I said, “Neither of us is suggesting you run. Zach’s safe for the time being, and we’ll see he stays that way. All either of us is asking is that you don’t fly till we can find out what’s going on.”

  “I cannot back out of this show, McCone. It’d be like backing out of my life.”

  I could understand what she was saying, even if I didn’t like it. We all have our ways of remaining strong in the face of emotional battering, our ways of remaining ourselves when circumstances contrive to rob us even of our identity. Matty’s was to fly, and fly well.

  Now Hy was stroking his mustache and staring contemplatively at her. “Okay,” he said, “I’ll make you a deal.”

  “What?” Warily.

  “You fly—but only if you let me help you preflight the plane.”

  “My mechanic and I—”

  “No, not this time. There’s a possibility somebody may tamper with it, and if anybody can spot the evidence it’s this old master mechanic.”

  She was silent.

  “So how about it?”

  “Jesus, you’ve been playing cloak-and-dagger games too damned long!”

  “Just don’t try to outdo me by playing ostrich.”

  I said, “He’s right, Matty. You know he is.”

  “Oh, shit!” She threw her hands up in surrender. “Do what you want. All I want is to fly.”

  “Good call, Ms. Wildress.” Hy stood, pulled her to her feet, and hugged her again. “Now, why don’t you get some sleep. We’ll head out to the field early tomorrow.” To me he added, “Let’s go, McCone. We’ve got some arrangements to make.”

  The motel’s bar was crowded, but Hy and I managed to capture a corner booth. While I placed our drink orders, he scouted out the free hors d’oeuvres and came back with a couple of plates piled high with meatballs and taquitos, chicken wings and pizza rolls. It all looked to be of the frozen-and-microwavable variety—and a far cry from the home-cooked lasagna we’d missed at Rae and Ricky’s.

  Seeing my frown, he said, “Yeah, I know, but it’ll have to do, since the restaurant’s closed. Ridiculous hour to stop serving. Let me have your cell phone, will you?”

  I pulled it from my bag and handed it over, glancing
around to see if anyone at the nearby tables had noticed. One of the things that irritates the hell out of me is users of cellular units ostentatiously making or receiving calls in places like restaurants, shops, and the aisles of grocery stores. My own had rung just the week before while I was trying to pick out a ripe avocado at Safeway, and in my embarrassment I’d almost dived behind a bin full of squash.

  Nobody paid any attention as Hy dialed the San Francisco office of Renshaw and Kessell International—the corporate security firm in which he held a one-third interest—and arranged for a guard to be posted at the house in Seacliff. He then called the house and explained the situation to Ricky, who had had plenty of experience with RKI’s services the previous summer. As Hy flipped the phone closed and passed it back to me, he asked, “You carrying?”

  “Yes.” I touched my purse. “Matty sounded so panicked when she called that I brought my thirty-eight along.”

  “Good. We’re going to have to protect her both before and after she flies. This way, I won’t have to requisition a weapon from our Sacramento office.”

  “You really think somebody might go after her up here?”

  “Hard to say, when we don’t have the foggiest what this is all about.”

  “So what do we have?” I wolfed down a meatball, then began ticking off points on my fingertips. “John Seabrook, a man whose past only goes back ten years. A man who struggles to make a living off a Christmas-tree farm and can’t afford to remodel his kitchen—but who also has access to seventy thousand dollars. A disappearance that he apparently planned for only two days in advance. Plans that included making sure the money would be available to Matty in cash if he didn’t return by a certain date. The implication, because the transfer of funds went through, that something went radically wrong with his plans. And his statement that Matty’s and Zach’s lives are in danger.”